Riddle was simultaneously contemplating Morsia's demise and the location of the good old Chamber of Secrets, all while scheming to learn more about Horcruxes and somehow maintaining his impeccable academic record. He had quite a lot on his plate, too much for an ordinary student but Tom Riddle was anything but ordinary, obviously. Every thought he entertained was methodical, every step deliberate. His mind never wandered aimlessly; even his moments of distraction were calculated.
He made a mental note to dig deeper into the subject of Horcruxes, to confirm the credibility of the information he had gathered so far. Of course, in any normal circumstance, he might have gone to Professor Dumbledore for guidance, but he knew better now. Dumbledore's piercing gaze had lingered on him too often, too knowingly. Riddle could feel the man's quiet suspicion like a dagger pressed to his spine. And with the ongoing Grindelwald chaos, Dumbledore had enough to keep him occupied, conveniently distracted, but not enough for Riddle's liking.
So he chose the obvious alternative: Professor Slughorn. The man was indulgent, gullible, and most importantly, flattered by attention. Riddle only needed to wait for the perfect moment.
And as if fate itself was listening to his scheming, he turned a corner and found Slughorn right there in the hallway, waddling toward him with his usual jolly demeanor.
"Tom, my boy! What're you up to?" Slughorn beamed, his face flushed with the warmth of the evening feast. His heavy hand landed on Riddle's back in a fatherly pat.
Riddle inclined his head with polite precision, his lips tugging slightly into a smirk that sharpened his already refined features. "Just strolling the campus, Professor. I find it helps with quiet thinking."
Slughorn chuckled, the sound echoing down the marble corridor like the booming of a jovial ghost. "Good, good! Always thinking, that's what makes you stand out, Tom. We shall meet again soon, at the upcoming Slug Club party, of course!"
He gave one last approving nod before waddling off in the opposite direction, humming to himself.
Riddle's smirk lingered as he continued down the stairs, muttering under his breath, "Yes indeed. The Slug Club party will be the perfect opportunity to talk."
He began counting his thoughts on his fingers, each idea a separate thread of his growing web of power. The Chamber of Secrets, Horcruxes, Dumbledore's watchful eye, and now, Morsia Ravenwood. The name alone made his jaw tense.
But his musings were interrupted by the faint sound of shuffling down the staircase below. At first, he ignored it. Hogwarts was full of whispering corridors and muttering portraits; strange noises were hardly unusual. But as he descended, the source of the sound became painfully clear.
Notts and Rosier were pressed against the wall in a passionate tangle of limbs, far too absorbed in each other to notice him approaching. Riddle froze mid-step, his expression hardening. Disgust rolled through him in waves, nausea tightening his chest. It wasn't merely their public display that bothered him; it was the sheer vulgarity of it, the way they could lose themselves so easily in something so trivial. Love, well definitely not between these two. Lust. Attachment. Weakness.
He walked past them with long, purposeful strides, his robes sweeping behind him like the shadow of disdain itself. The dungeons were quieter, colder, and more fitting for his mood.
Morsia Ravenwood emerged from the girls' dormitory not long after. Her velvet-black hair flowed smoothly down her back, catching faint glimmers of torchlight as she walked. Her steps were silent, deliberate, and her eyes, those golden-amber eyes held a glint of mischief even in the dim corridor.
She didn't make it far before she felt a sudden tug on her forearm. She turned sharply, her expression shifting from calm indifference to mild annoyance. Standing before her was a tall, broad-shouldered boy with aristocratic features and the faintest trace of arrogance in his smile.
Orion Black. Quidditch Captain. Head Boy. The kind of Slytherin poster child the school adored. She remembered him from the quidditch match, but she certainly didn't remember him being bold enough to grab her arm.
Her brow arched warningly, but Orion mistook the gesture for curiosity rather than the silent threat it was.
He quickly released her arm, his confidence unwavering. After a pause, his tone somewhere between polite inquiry and nervous arrogance, he muttered "Are you a pure-blooded witch? I heard you went to a Muggle school before Hogwarts."
Morsia's brows remained arched. "What if I am?" she asked, her tone laced with challenge.
Orion's hesitation melted into a slow grin. "Then would you—"
Before he could finish his sentence, a sharp, familiar voice cut through the air.
"Ravenwood."
Morsia turned. Tom Riddle stood a few feet away, his expression unreadable but his tone carrying that quiet command he never had to raise his voice for.
Never, in the short and unpredictable span of time he had known her, had he thought he would seek her out. Yet here he was, standing before her with the kind of seriousness that almost amused her and even himself.
He had a reason, she could tell from his eyes. A reason that was not as noble or innocent as he might pretend.
Riddle approached, his gaze flicking briefly to Orion before resting back on her. "We have to talk."
She smirked mockingly, the kind of smirk that was only reserved for the sole purpose of rage baiting him. "Oh, do we now?" she said, her voice dripping with mockery. She ignored the way Orion's unfinished sentence hung awkwardly in the air.
Orion, for his part, didn't protest. He was too taken aback by Riddle's sudden appearance and the quiet authority that seemed to follow him everywhere. Everyone in Slytherin knew that when Tom Riddle wanted something, or someone you stepped aside. And Orion, though proud, wasn't foolish enough to challenge him.
He muttered something about Quidditch practice and left the common room, his footsteps echoing away down the corridor.
When the room fell silent again, Riddle turned to face Morsia. His jaw tightened slightly as he spoke. "I have something to ask."
Her eyes gleamed with mischief. "Yes, my Lord," she mocked, drawing out the title just to see the flicker of irritation in his eyes. She loved to provoke him, to chip away at his carefully crafted calm.
Riddle inhaled slowly through his nose, controlling the flare of anger that rose within him. Every fiber of his being wanted to hex that smirk off her face, but he needed her for now. His plan depended on it.
And so, with the same unnerving calm that had fooled professors and prefects alike, he looked her straight in the eye and asked, "Would you be my girlfriend?"